Chapter 3

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

Eugene paused for a few seconds. "I'm here to take you home."

I paused, then let out a laugh. It wasn't a happy one, but the kind of one made when someone said something absurd.

"Home?" I stared at him. "Which home? My home was destroyed three days ago. My children were taken away, and my heart was signed away. Do I still have a home?"

His face went pale. "I'll deal with Amy. She lied to me, and I—"

"She lied to you?" I cut him off. "Eugene, what exactly did she lie about?"

He didn't answer.

"She told you she was the one who saved you all those years ago, right?" I locked eyes with him. "Now you know it was actually me. So what now?"

He stared at me, his eyes filled with something I couldn't read. I couldn't tell whether it was guilt, pain, or something else.

"What do you want?" I pressed. "Do you want to admit you were wrong and ask me to come back so we can start over?"

His lips twitched,

I said, "Eugene, you were wrong. Whether I go back or not won't change that."

The door opened again. Jonathan stood there with my medical file, looking from Eugene to me without saying a word.

"Please leave," I said.

Eugene didn't budge.

Jonathan spoke up, "Mr. Lambert, your wife needs to rest."

Eugene glanced at me, then turned and walked away.

After the door closed, I leaned back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling. The sunlight was gone. It was dark now.

Jonathan walked over and set the medical files on the nightstand.

"I've already reached out to Mr. Guzman," he said quietly. "He said he can help arrange a transfer if you want to leave."

I turned to look at him. "If I go, can I take the kids with me?"

He paused for a moment.

"You can take your son with you, but your daughter—" Jonathan paused. "She was just born, and the hospital has records. If Eugene doesn't agree, you might have to go to court."

I stared out the window. It was dark, with a few streetlights glowing faintly.

I said, "Tell Mr. Guzman I'm leaving. I'll take my son with me. As for my daughter—"

I remembered the sound she made when they took her away. It was a tiny cry, like a kitten's mew.

"My daughter stays for now," I said. "I'll come back once I'm settled."

Jonathan nodded and walked out.

I lay down, staring up at the ceiling.

Eugene's face kept appearing in my mind. He stood by the bed, his eyes red, telling me he had come to take me home.

I used to dream about hearing those words. Now I finally did, but I felt nothing at all.

*****

Three days later, I arranged my transfer to another hospital. Jonathan helped me leave through the emergency exit at the back.

Marcus was waiting in a very ordinary black car.

I sat in the back seat, cradling my son.

He was so tiny and soft. He slept with his eyes closed, not knowing what was going on.

As the car started moving, I looked back at the hospital.

The newborn ward was on the seventh floor. That was where my daughter was.

"Wait for me," I whispered, gently pressing my forehead against my son's. "Mommy will definitely come back for you."

The car turned the corner, and the hospital vanished. Outside were streets and people I didn't recognize.

I was going to another city to start fresh.

The little boy in my arms shifted, made a small sound, and fell asleep again.

I looked at his face. He looked like his dad, especially his eyes and nose, but he was mine. Mine alone.

*****

The car kept going all night. By morning, I leaned against the window and dozed off.

In my dream, there was no Eugene, no Amy, and no operating table. I only heard my daughter's cry.

Five years was enough for a newborn to grow into a kid who could run, jump, and talk nonstop.

It was also enough to turn a woman from a dying body on an operating table into a doctor seeing patients again.

I rented a place in another city. It was an old apartment on the sixth floor, no elevator, but the rent was cheap.

When my son, Hayden, was three, his fever shot up to 104 °F.

I carried him down the stairs. It was dark, and I missed a step, hitting my knee hard on the concrete. Blood ran down my leg.

I didn't stop. I ran two blocks with him until I found an open clinic.

He burned with fever in my arms, face red, calling "Mom" over and over.

I kept reassuring him, "Mom is right here."

Later, when the fever was gone, he asked, "Mom, how did you get that scar on your knee?"

I told him I fell by accident.

He leaned down and blew on my knee. "Now it won't hurt anymore."

He was three years old that year.

The year I took my medical licensing exams, he was four.

I took him to daycare during the day. At night, after putting him to bed, I studied. Sometimes I fell asleep at the table while studying.

When I woke up, his blanket was covering me. He would sit beside me quietly, watching me.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" I asked him.

"I was afraid you'd feel cold," he said.

He was four years old then.

The day I got my medical license, I took him to McDonald's. He ate two wings and packed the rest to eat tomorrow.

He asked, "Mom, do we have money now?"

I smiled. "Yes. I'm a doctor now."

He nodded seriously. "I'll eat less from now on, so you won't have to work so hard."

He was four and a half that year.

When he turned five, I brought him back to this city.

When I left, I was wheeled in for surgery. When I returned, I drove myself. The trunk was filled with his toys, my books, and a small plant I'd kept for three years.

Hayden sat in the back seat, pressing against the window to look outside. "Mom, is this the place you lived before?"

"Yeah."

"Does dad live here?"

I paused for a few seconds. "He lives here, but he's not your father."

He nodded and didn't ask again.

Hayden never brought up his dad. He knew I'd rather not talk about it.